


The Advent of Spring

by LogosMinusPity



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F, Freljord, resolution fic, stubborn Freljord babes who just need to kiss already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogosMinusPity/pseuds/LogosMinusPity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All is said and done.  The Ice Witch has been thwarted, and peace finally achieved in the Freljord with Ashe as its Queen.  But at what cost?  With the conflict abated and duty fulfilled, Ashe finds herself weighed down by the accumulated regrets her decisions have lead her toward, and seeks to right it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Advent of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to [Suqling](http://suqling.tumblr.com/).
> 
> It is through many extensive conversations with her that this piece was born, and based off of her own headcanons for how things might play out in the Freljord beyond the current impasse (but that is her story to tell, not mine!).
> 
> Suffice to say that this small piece takes place after certain events have unfolded, ultimately leading to Lissandra nearly taking over the Freljord (using Sejuani as a pawn of sorts), only to be ultimately undone. In this current post-canon verse, Ashe and Tryndamere now reign as supreme rulers, while Sejuani has taken her leave from the political and societal scene.
> 
> (This was also unbeta'd so I apologize for any errors I may have missed--feel free to point them out). 
> 
> Feedback of any kind is always greatly appreciated--otherwise read and enjoy! Thanks!

It was over.

That was the mantra Ashe repeated to herself every dawn and every twilight. They were the words that she silently whispered whenever the crown was placed back onto her head, when she sat on the high throne with Tryndamere on her left.  It was the remembrance she uttered whenever she found herself as she did now, on the balcony, staring northward and at the great jutting teeth of the Ironspikes.

It was supposed to be a reassurance, an uplifting call of victory.

It was over.  Everything was finally over.

Despite all of the stars that had seemed aligned against them...despite Lissandra and the Watchers...they had won.  For the first time in all of written and spoken history, the Freljord was united under a single ruler.  And Ashe was that Queen.

Yet as the months passed on and all of the tribes—even the once rebellious Winter’s Claw—bowed before her will, that utterance of victory only grew ever more hollow within her chest.

From the newly named and shining capitol here in the southern valleys, Ashe now ruled.  Half of the palace had been reconstructed and expanded as the city burgeoned and swelled, and a grander throne room had been erected in the receiving hall—one that was worthy of an undisputed monarch.

A new ‘golden era’ for the Freljord—that’s what the gossip among the common folk were calling it, an advent of glory for their people.  Yet even with all of the banquets and celebrations, with the widespread peace and growing prosperity, Ashe did not feel it.

The Queen of the Freljord stared out over the open balcony, looking beyond the walled courtyard and across the city.  Her city.  She had grown up in this same settlement, when her mother had still been alive and leader, when the tribes had been split and divided as always, and when she had still been just a child and hardly the makings “Avarosa’s Chosen”.

But all of that was a distant memory now, and the sprawl of new buildings and crowded districts were a far cry from the quiet town of the Frost Archers that she had been born in.

The Ironspikes loomed to the north as always, tall and imposing, and eternally capped in white.  Even with the new spring and the melting of the passes, the mountain peaks would always remain shrouded in their own unending winter.

A small sigh escaped through Ashe’s lips.  Spring was an occasion for celebration.  After months of bitter cold, it was a time for enjoying the fresh warmth of sun, for tilling the earth and planting new seed, for trade caravans and lively festivities.

Yet she felt wearied, drained.  The circlet of metal pressed heavily upon her brow, as if weighted with the silent quandaries she dared not voice but yet filled her thoughts even now.

It had been but a year past when spring had been a season of fear for the Frost Archers, filled with the deadly promise of raids from the north.  Those times were gone now, though, and her “people” were now all of the inhabitants of the Freljord.  Except perhaps barring one, even if she had left to relinquish all claims of the throne.

The mountain peaks gleamed, piercing the cloudless blue skies.

“Ashe.”

She started when the low tenor interrupted her train of thought...she had nearly forgotten that Tryndamere was even in the same room with her.  Her husband and de facto King of the Freljord was lounging in a cushioned chair.  To his side was a plate of of various delicacies from the kitchen, as well as the scroll that he and one of his lieutenants had been busied with before.

Yet the officer was no longer present, and the room was now emptied but for the two rulers.  Tryndamere’s brightly intelligent gaze was focused wholly on her.  Ashe turned from the balcony and calmly met it.

“Ashe, are you well?”

“Of course.” The words rolled off her tongue, no different than if he had asked if the sun was shining.

Tryndamere frowned, though, and shook his head the smallest degree.  The king stood to his full and impressive height, and slowly walked over.  He towered, her barbarian horse-lord, with a barrel chest that was almost as impossibly broad as he was tall.  Even with his sizeable collection of scars and his twice-broken nose, Ashe knew that most would consider him quite handsome.  With his dark skin and darker hair, he and his people were something of an exotic in the Freljord. 

Ashe supposed she should consider herself lucky.

Tryndamere was handsome, capable, and well-meaning.  He had proven time and time again to be the perfect ally, and even Ashe herself could not think of a better choice to have wed.

And yet theirs was a marriage of no more than convenience.

Ashe _did_ care for Tryndamere’s well being, and he for hers.  Yet that could not create a greater depth of feeling where there was none to be found.

They were an alliance for the throne, for the good of the Freljord and their peoples, and naught else.

Even so, they were not unfeeling.

Tryndamere continued, his brow furrowing at his wife’s all too reflexive response.

“Ashe, what is it?  You have been…” He paused, as he was so wont to do, carefully searching for just the right word to express himself.  For a barbarian, he had indeed become quite the monarch. “...’upset’.  I see that.  Would not talking of it ease you?”

He gestured with a hand, but he did not touch her, not even in cautious comfort.

They were king and queen, husband and wife, but in name and title only.  Theirs was a political binding, a match of strategy only, and it was for a reason that most nights they chose to sleep in their separate chambers.

Still, she knew it was with genuine concern that Tryndamere spoke now.

She owed him something back.

Yet when she opened her mouth, no words were forthcoming, neither from her tongue nor within her mind.

What was there to be said?

Ashe shook her head once, twice, and then turned away, steadfastly looking back out over the city with pursed lips.  Her hands gripped and curled tightly along the balcony bar.

There was the heavy sigh of air next to her, and the movement in her peripheral of Tryndamere resignedly bowing his head.

“I am here if you need me.”

Then he retreated from the room entirely, leaving Ashe once again to the uneasy solitude of thought.

 

* * *

 

 

The nightly quiet of her chambers brought Ashe no more peace than it had for many months now.  Her mind had been unusually distracted the remainder of the day, and while she had hoped that sleep would give her refuge, it had been too much to expect.

How long she had lain in her bed tossing and turning, fighting off the constant buzz of circular thoughts, was uncertain.

She stared into the canopied roof of her bed.  These were the Queen’s Chambers, and she was the Queen.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Though whispered, the words seemed to boom through the nighttime silence like a doomsayer’s proclamation.

The spacious layout of her bedroom abruptly became deeply and grossly claustrophobic.  The dark walls threatened to close in on her, strangle the air from her lungs.  She jerked from her pillow, thrashing out of the tangle of fine cotton sheets with a haste that nearly sent her sprawling onto the floor.  She only barely shrugged on a cloak and grabbed her bow before half-running out of her room, and into the bright and torch-lit corridor.

“Majesty?” The two door-guards gaped and straightened, hands instantly on their weapons.

The title of address, which she had long since grown used to, grated on her ears but grounded her nonetheless.  What they must think at the moment...

“At ease,” she commanded cooly.  It took a moment to remind herself that these young warriors were simply doing their job.  They were concerned for the well-being of their liege “I have trouble sleeping tonight, so I am going for a walk.”

“Of course, we will—”

“Alone.”

Both guardsmen looked more than distressed that their charge was deciding to go off on her own.  How was it that it seemed so foreign for Ashe to go about without an armed escort?  Had the times truly changed that much since her childhood days?

She tapped her bow lightly. “I will be fine.  I’m far from defenseless, and I won’t be leaving the palace.  Be at ease.”

Though still clearly uneasy, both guards bowed their heads, no choice but to acquiesce. “Majesty.”

Ashe daren’t not release the heavy sigh within her lungs, even as she strode through the torch-lit halls.  She increased her pace—longer strides, faster steps—until she was nearly running, the tapestries and stonework a blur along her sides.  Yet she could no better escape the invisible and growing weight on her chest than the burning at the corners of her eyes.  There was no where to run to.

A door was tossed open before her frantic arm, and then a blast of chill air forced her from her panic.

She gasped for breath, trying to regain her confused bearings.  Stars twinkled above her, no longer blocked by wood and granite.  The wind tickled against her face, and the nearly full moon cast more than enough light to make up for the lack of torches.

Ashe was surrounded by an impeccably tended garden, all varieties of Freljordian saplings and flora organized in the open air garden...and of Freljordian variety only.  The floor was composed of enameled tiles, tiny winking patterns cleverly pieced together into a flowing and beautiful mural beneath her feet. 

There was only one possible place that this could be.

She was in the most private wing of the castle, standing in a rooftop garden that not even the guards were allowed to step foot into.  She was in the Aerie.

A work of architectural majesty, it was the greatest construction project in countless generations within the Freljord, and the first attempts to recreate the glory and progress of their ancestors.  The Aerie had had been built under Ashe’s command, and for the finest guest that the city of Avarosa ever had, and ever would, house.

It was an accomplishment that rang praises and testimony to her rule.  Yet it meant nothing to her now.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Ashe wished Anivia were still in residence here.  But the cyrophoenix chick was gone, under the care of the ursine until she grew large enough to fly back to tip of the Ironspikes themselves, where her true home lay.

Now, perhaps more than ever, Ashe longed to sit by the side of the spirit of the Freljord, to bow her head and speak of those strains of the heart and mind that so weighed on her.

But it was wishful thinking, and it was not as though Anivia would be able to give the guidance she so strongly craved, not in these matters at least.

She had thought that the issues would go away, that they would solve themselves out.  She had thought that this…this residual longing would be a transient thing, to dispel like morning fog before the sun, particularly with the newfound peace of the country. 

She had never wanted this, and yet want was all she seemed left with.  Want and a growing, bitter regret.

Ashe curled up against the decorated and empty nest.  The tile was cool against her cheek, and for a moment she was but a child again.  Her mother was alive and Ashe had not a care in the world except to escape down toward the markets, to drag the friend she had made from the travel caravans back to the stables with her before she had to leave both Ashe and the city again with the Winter’s Claw for the north.

Her eyes squeezed shut tight for a moment, old memories and images running unbidden in her mind.

“Avarosa,” she whispered into the darkness.  She had done her forebearer honor; from the moment her frantic footsteps had led her to the cairn of the original Frost Archer, from the moment the legendary bow had touched her palm, she had worked diligently to fulfill the will of her Iceborn ancestor.  She had done everything, made every necessary choice, all to see that vision of a one, true Freljord realized.  So what was she supposed to do now?  That vision had been made reality, so how was she supposed to choose?

“What do I do?”

Ashe closed her eyes fully, willing away the sickly sense of loss within her breast, and the images of both a blond haired and laughing child, and the stern and scarred warlord that same child had become. 

She awoke to the bright light of sunrise shining against her eyelids, and winced as she sat up.  Had she truly fallen asleep in the Aerie? 

Her muscles, aching and protesting, were testament enough to the truth.

She should be mortified, she knew—a Queen, practically fleeing from her own lavish rooms only to fall asleep on courtyard stone.  No guilt or shame was forthcoming, though.  Her sleep had been surprisingly dreamless and restful, but the heaviness that had weighed upon her heart and mind was no more banished than the night before, and she had no desire to return back into the palace where all of the ornaments and expectations of her station awaited her.

So instead, she walked over toward the reflecting pool.  Even without Anivia, the Aerie was perfectly maintained, and the shallow waters of the pool were still and unsullied by dirt. Ashe crouched down to scoop up what little she could, to splash her face with the refreshing cold water.  Her hands paused, though, and she found herself staring down into her own uncertain  reflection.

White hair, pale skin, and bright blue eyes.  The were the trademark looks from the blood of the Three Sisters.  The calm surface of the pool flickered briefly under the light, and for a moment Ashe’s image distorted, and she saw tall and sculpted cheekbones, scraggly hair, and proud lips.  Her fingers were already half reaching for a scar that wasn’t there before she caught herself.

The heavy weight that had plagued her for months—no, years—coalesced into a fierce and pointed pain beneath her breast.  Suddenly, the haze of doubt and worry that had clouded her mind dissipated.  The course of action before her, so elusive and befuddled the night before, was for once as plain as the morning sun.

She took off at a brisk stride, not caring that she still wore her now-dirtied bedclothes beneath her cloak.  It couldn’t even be mid morning yet, and the palace wasn’t receiving visitors until afternoon, which meant that royal breakfast was still being served in the private dining hall. 

Ashe threw open the iron-bound doors to the dining room, calling out in an echoed pitch toward the burly and freshly bathed man who sat on the far end of the long table.

“Tryndamere!”

He looked up from his half-eaten breakfast, initial alarm smoothing away into something else as Ashe approached his chair.  He frowned briefly at her haphazard appearance.

Ashe gathered her fortitude, and started anew.  She could not shake the feeling that she had discovered a window of opportunity and resolve within herself, one that needed to be seized now lest the way was closed to her forever more.

And she could not bear to think of continuing to live with such.

“Tryndamere,” she repeated. “I have decided that I need to...to…”

“You’re leaving.” He finished the thought for her, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

“I am.” She tried to mask her surprise, though doubtlessly failed.  It was a waste bother with trivial dalliances, particularly if Trynd had already guessed so much. “...I am going to find Sejuani.”

For a moment, all that could be heard were the spring songbirds outside the windows.

“Sejuani?” It was her husband’s turn to express incredulity.  He brow furrowed downward, perplexed. “You mean—”

“Yes.  I mean Sejuani.”

There was only one that they knew.

Ashe took a full and deep breath, steadying her resolve.

“I need to find Sejuani because...I need her,” she admitted.  Saying it aloud suddenly made it easier, and the words followed easily, if soft. “And I think I always have.”

Tryndamere gave a low and pensive hum, and rubbed his mustache for a moment. “And what _of_ Sejuani?  Do you know what she thinks?” 

“I...I hope I know what she feels, but I don’t.” She paused. “And I need to know.  For me.”

She exhaled again, a bit heavily. What she was doing broke every law of decorum and sense alike, but she had spoken truly: it was something she _needed_ to do.  And if she didn’t leave now, then she feared she never would.

Her husband was a good man and a better king, but she grew cold to think of a lifetime of regrets and could-have-beens, of a question and doubt never answered.

A second, even lower hum greeted that, and this time Tryndamere rubbed the whole of his beard as he pondered the half-request, half-demand presented before him by his wife and queen...and just what was not being said.

Then he turned and went right back to breakfast.

Ashe gaped for a moment, confused. “Trynd!”

“Try not be gone for longer than a fortnight, if you can manage.  You _are_ the Queen, Ashe.  I’m just the King.  And since I know you’ll hardly accept an escort guard, be safe.”

That had her gaping even further.  Surely, _surely_ , her ears were deceiving her.  When she only stood there, he simply continued to sample the various pickings left on his plate.

“I’d assumed you would want to leave as soon as possible?” He finally spoke again when the silence drew on, a touch of gentle amusement in his deep voice.

Ashe felt something in her chest suddenly spark into blazing life.  A completely unbecoming squeak of both surprise and excitement left her throat.  She darted in, threw her arms around him in a hug and pressed a quick and fleeting kiss to the stubble on his cheek.  He gave a grunt of surprise at the unusual but sincere affection, and smiled when she parted back from him.

“Thank you...just...thank you,” whispered Ashe.  Her deeply felt gratitude was waved away with ease, though.

The were not a match of love, no, and never would be, but he still cared for her.

“Be well, Ashe.  I wish you best.  And I will be here when you return.”

 

* * *

 

It took five long days of tireless traveling to find Sejuani.

Though once so prominent in the northern lands, the former leader of the Winter’s Claw had forsaken both her position and her home upon the end of the war, deep shadows behind her eyes.  She had disappeared from society and into reclusive anonymity, and Ashe would have had little idea where to begin her search were it not for Volibear.  The Chieftain of the Ursine had told the Queen of Sejuani’s approximate whereabouts when he had last visited; he had spoken, in clipped tones, of his old comrade’s decision to leave society, to impose an exile on herself and retreat into the great and snowy mountains of the Freljord.

Just as much as then, Ashe felt something in her tighten painfully at the thought.

No amount of talking would have convinced Sejuani otherwise, but Ashe had hardly put in the same effort as the ursine or Olaf, or even Braum.  She had watched the others take turns to plead with the despondently resigned warrior.  She had watched and bit back the urge to grab a fistful of Sejuani’s tunic in her hand and practically command the woman to stay.

Instead she had done nothing, and she had watched silently when the lone boar-rider disappeared into the northern horizon, the silhouette of a broken horned helmet emblazoned into memory.

Ashe was left with that image in her mind’s eye, and the growing weight of rare but stabbing regret.

It was a weight she had grown too accustomed to.

Her lips pursed and she shook her head softly, stepping around another fallen branch.  She would _not_ allow herself to go down that treacherous mental pathway.  Not now of all times.

She shook her head once, focusing on the physical task at hand.  Her feet were beginning to grow stiff, though her horse still plodded along obediently behind her.  Riding through the forested and steep tundra of the mountainside had not been the most reasonable of options, but the hours of hiking seemed to prove how unused to the exertion she was.  She had been scaling this mountain since early morning, making her slow way upward, desperate for the few rumors that she had picked up in village to be true; rumors of a hermited warrior, marked with heavy scars and accompanied only by a frost boar so large as to be out of legend.

Still she pressed onward, following the once distant but steady curl of smoke above the trees.  Surely— _surely_ —it had to be Sejuani.  Surely there was no one else in these godforsaken wilds, no one else capable of living in such severe isolation.  And surely once Ashe saw her, once she actually spoke to her, something—

The trees thinned and the ended, revealing a wide clearing complete with a newly built but sturdy cabin, grey smoke streaming out from the chimney.

Ashe approached the edge of the treeline, and then stopped short, staring at the sole figure in the clearing.

Despite the cold spring air, Sejuani was wearing a simple and sleeveless leather jerkin.  The exposed length of her arms glistened with the sweat of exertion, and the myriad of scars that rose across skin shifted and jumped atop the movement of powerful muscles.

An axe rose into the air, gripped by two calloused and confident hands, before slamming downward with a killing force...and splitting a small log in two.

Once those hands had carved a swathe of blood, had driven a proud nation to its knees.  Now they held neither flail nor battleaxe, only a simple woodsman’s tool, and a growing pile of logs as the spoils of victory.

This was it.  This was her.  _This_ was Sejuani.  The Winter’s Wrath, the Warlord of the North, the Conqueror...the woman who nearly bled out on a mountainside, who once begged for her hand, for her to not wed Tryndamere...and who nearly a year ago rode out into the snowstorms, foreswearing all that she had ever worked for.

Somewhere in the past of this hardened and weary woman was a small child—a veritable runt of the litter—playing on the market streets with the equally small princess of the Frost Archers, neither of them prepared for toil and tax the long years would exact from them.

But was that child still alive in Sejuani?  Ashe could not help but wonder, who was the woman before her now: a warlord, or something else?

Bristle gave a loud and whuffling snort from across the clearing, grunting and shuffling as he looked directly at Ashe.

Sejuani stopped her chopping then, whipping up and around immediately, now alert. “What is it, Bristle?  What did you...see…”

The words trailed off as soon as their gazes connected.

 _Caught_.

With no point in continuing to stand along the trees, Ashe stepped slowly into the clearing, her horse obediently following after her.

Sejuani said nothing as Ashe walked toward her.  Her axe now hung loosely in one hand by her side, and her bright and piercing gaze—though initially surprised—was now impenetrable.  Queen of a nation, victor of a war...those titles meant nothing now.  As Ashe closed the distance, her heart thudded loudly in her ears, and it took everything in her not to waver, not to look away.

She had come all this far for a reason.  She couldn’t leave just yet.

“Sejuani.” She ignored the unusual stammer in her own voice, stopping several paces short of her one-time rival. 

For all that it pointed downward, the woodsman’s axe was still firmly in hand.

“What...what are you doing here, Ashe?”

If Sejuani noticed the way her own voice cracked just the tiniest bit at the end, she didn’t show it.

“I was looking for you,” Ashe dared.  Her apparent bluntness surprised even herself.

Those beautiful and catching blue eyes widened, and then chose to turn away.  It stung—harsh and unexpected—but Ashe refused to do the same, keeping her eyes pinned on sculpted and pale profile.

“You’re the ruler of this land now.” The normally rough and resonant voice was a low and soft whisper, and the words seemed uttered with a quiet pain. “What could a Queen possibly hope to find from a penniless hermit living in the mountains?”

“Sej…” But what things could she tell her childhood friend that had not been considered already?  She reached out instinctively, and then caught herself when Sejuani turned back toward her.  Her hand hovered, and her eyes were distracted by the one thing she had somehow failed to notice until now.

“Your hair…” Ashe continued to extend her arm, fingers trembling only the slightest bit as she dared to run her fingers through a silken lock. “You’re growing it out.”

Sejuani didn’t push her hand away.  Instead she drew a deep breath.  Her nostrils flared and her eyes closed for a long moment as she released it.

“Mmm.” It was a wordless sound of agreement.

“You never did take any care with your hair,” reminisced Ashe, beginning to smile at the uneven blonde ends that were growing out. 

“And you always took all the care in the world...for a bit of hair,” retorted Sejuani.  The barest of smiles was tugging at her lips.  Something glimmered behind her veiled eyes, and Ashe wanted—she needed—to see more of it.  She needed to know.

Suddenly emboldened, her fingertips dared to trail astray, moving from blonde tresses to gently cup one cheek.  She rubbed her thumb over the prominent scar there, and Sejuani...Sejunai didn’t push away the touch, didn’t step back.  She leaned into it, and Ashe felt her throat catch, and her heart pound in her ears.

So many scars...and how many were because of her?  Were _for_ her?

She withdrew her hand, already missing the warmth of skin against it.

“Ashe,” asked Sejuani again.  This time there was something terrible and desperate and hopeful all at once in the former warlord’s eyes...and Ashe felt her breath catch and her blood stir at it. “What are you _doing_ here?”

She inhaled deeply, drawing on the same steady persistence that had compelled her to get this far.  Looking directly into the icy blue eyes above her, she answered.

“I came for you.”

It simple and forthright, and it was the truth.  She hadn’t come as the leader of their people, as Avarosa’s Chosen and the head of the United Tribes.  The moment she had mounted her horse and turned north, she had left behind every title ever bestowed on her, even if it was only for a fortnight.

Here and now, for the first time in countless years, she was just Ashe.

She repeated herself, voice wavering this time with the terrifying but fragile weight of feeling behind it. “Sej, I _came for you_.”

Sejuani blinked hard at that, jaw clenching.  The muscles in her throat moved visibly as she swallowed, and a the tip of a pink tongue darted out to wet her lips.  Yet there was still apprehension, shadows lurking behind the normally confident and self-sure visage.

“And what of the Freljord?  What of your country?  Just what does your husband think of you going off to—”

Ashe cut her off firmly, politely, and hopeful beneath it all. “Tryndamere knows exactly where I am, Sej.”

_He knows what it is that I’m doing...what it is that I am here for._

Silence initially greeted that, and Ashe had to bite back down the fluttering in her stomach.  She watched and waited as those deceptively cunning eyes narrowed, thinking, measuring just exactly what had been said...and what the full implication of it was. 

A wordless hum rumbled up.

“Mm...does he, now?” Sejuani asked the question with almost a casual disregard, like a necessary formality.  She deposited the axe onto the chopping stump with one easy movement, then took a half step closer, until even the illusion of space had been taken away.  Her hand came up to rest—neither too heavy nor too light—on Ashe’s hip, and her eyes half-closed with a lazy and liquid heat. 

Which did nothing for the warmth rising in Ashe’s cheeks. 

Still, she raised her chin back, and spoke in calm and measured tones. “Indeed.  And he does not expect to see me back for at least another week.”

When a raised and intrigued eyebrow was her response back, she decided the time for words had passed. 

“Sejuani.” Putting one hand firmly on the back of the taller woman’s neck, Ashe pushed her head downward and captured those firm and stubborn lips with her own.

She could _feel_ the sharp intake of breath above her, and her own mirroring gasp.  This— _this_...how could she have held herself back for so long from this?  How could she even possibly think…?

Sejuani’s hands tugged on her, dragging their hips flush, and she suddenly kissed back with a desperate intensity, clinging to every last bit that was being offered.

Finally, Ashe mustered enough propensity to pull away.  Taken aback by how breathless she was after just a few kisses, she glanced as meaningfully as could be managed toward the modest cabin.

“We should...go inside.”

Sejuani laughed then.  It was clear and happy and free, and rang through the air like a silver chime.  It was a sound Ashe had not heard in many, many years, and she felt something soft and sweet pull within her chest.

“Well, then, my Queen...let me show you your quarters.”

Then before Ashe could so much as react, her feet were off the ground and she was caught up, held in Sejuani’s strong and sure arms, and cradled to her chest.

The taller woman lifted her weight easily, though a rosy tint now adorned her face.

Ashe looped her arms around Sejuani, laughing as she was carried toward the small cabin.  She leaned in, pressing small and fluttery kisses into the soft and pale stretch of neck that was offered to her.

As soon as the door was thrown closed behind them, though, Ashe slid free from Sejuani’s captive arms, not content with simply being held.  That aching burn she had fostered with her chest for so long was now a searing heat.  She needed to touch, to feel, to taste.  Suddenly there was nothing in the world except the woman before for, and the scant air and bits of clothing that kept skin from skin.

Sejuani’s made a muffled sound and stumbled backward at the sudden assault, and the returned the initiative with her own fervor.  The scraping of fingers and lips, of teeth and tongue...the raw _need_ was practically palpable.

Her hands shook for the urgency with which she fumbled at the foreign jerkin, eager to remove the barrier of cloth.  It was hardly fair, too; Sejuani had already easily tossed aside Ashe’s cloak, her tunic.  The jerkin was tossed aside, and then she groaned at the layers of cloth binding Sejuani had covering her torso.  Could her choice in clothing be any more difficult?

She tugged at the bandages, but Sejuani’s hands were already at her abdomen, dipping lower.  The bed, covered in a sprawl of furs and sheets, was directly behind them.  Temporarily abandoning the current pursuit, Ashe put her palms against the curve of Sejuani’s collarbone and shoved.

It was scarcely the kind of force required to knock down a trained warrior, but Sejuani teetered and fell back into the sheets and furs with a whoosh.

Ashe joined her without a moment’s hesitation, a knee on either side of the angular hips and a tendril of white hair falling down to tickle at pale skin below her.  She felt Sejuani immediately begin to surge against her, to twist out from under her and change positions...which was hardly what Ashe wanted.  She wanted her woman to stay precisely where she was. 

Her arms darted out quickly, and she pinned each of the warrior’s wrists down with a hand.  It was a tenuous grip, and superficial at best; Sejuani was taller, bigger, far stronger.  She could break free and switch positions in a moment.  But while the tendons beneath Ashe’s grip tensed and tested, they didn’t push her back.

“Stop,” ordered Ashe. “I want you to stay still for me.”

“Still!?” Sejuani’s voice cracked, and her jaw moved soundlessly for a few incredulous seconds.  Her pale eyes flickered down from Ashe’s face, heavy with want.  Even so, she kept her arms against the mattress after Ashe slowly released them, muscles flexing with the effort of self-restraint.

She licked her lips once, twice.

“Patience.”

“I’ve had patience for a score of years,” Sejuani protested back, but she held herself nonetheless.

This time Ashe’s hands did tremble as she reached back down.  Here was Sejuani...the conqueror, the unrelenting...and her heart’s deepest desire... flushed and nearly writhing beneath her.  Ashe could see the wanton hunger, could already feel the yearning heat already rolling off of her in waves, and yet Sejuani held herself, waiting on command, yielding to let Ashe to take her pleasure as she would.

 _So much self-control_.

Ashe intended to make the most of it, to push that rigid discipline to its limits.

She lowered herself down gradually, kissing her way from those tempting lips along the equally strong jaw.  She kissed down the the curved and prominent neck muscle, kissed across the jut of collarbone and hollow of her throat, and all the while noting just which spots led to a sharp inhale, a scarcely repressed shudder. 

She moved across every last telltale mark of war and battle, tasting and feeling, until she came upon one in particular, just below the collarbone and shoulder.

Of all the scars that were painted across Sejuani’s skin, this was the largest, the one that drew the eye the most.  It was also the newest, but Ashe knew that it would never ease or fade with age like the others.

It spidered out, silver and almost ghostly, the lasting and cursed touch of black frost. 

Ashe slowly brought her mouth to the the rough and discolored scar tissue.  Her kiss was soft, almost reverent at first.  She traced the whole of the old injury first with her lips, and then with her fingers, her tongue, the grazing of her teeth...until she had imprinted it seamlessly into her memory.

With one hand she pushed aside the loosened chest wraps, and with the other she began to undo the obstinate belt atop those frustratingly skin tight breeches.

The buckle came free, falling away, and giving her fingers free access to begin pushing against the waistband of leather.

“Ashe…” Sejuani’s voice was reduced to a hoarse and needy rasp, and Ashe’s fingers froze as soon as her name was uttered.

She fought, unsuccessfully, to push back the longing shiver that ran through her, and had to pull back for a moment.

Sejuani hands were balled up into fists, her neck exposed and one cheek pressed flat against the sheets.  And her eyes...they were glassy with desperate need, verging quite clearly on the precipice of broken control.

Ashe leaned down again, pressed herself to the impressive physique that was still pinned below her.  She ran the tip of her tongue along the curve of one ear, nipping lightly.  In response, Sejuani gave a throaty whine, and Ashe savored the of sensation of silken muscles against her.

She drew back just enough to whisper, low and every bit as heavily possessive as what she felt. “You’re mine...Sejuani.”

In a flash, their positions were reversed.  Sejuani was atop her, hands and mouth moving frenetically against skin, making her back arch and a laughing moan choke from her throat.

“I thought...I thought I told you to be patient.” The fact that she was able to gasp even that much much was a feat, what with how those calloused fingers were scraping over her her hips and down her thighs.

Sejuani stopped from what torturous designs she had busied her mouth with.  She pushed herself up, and Ashe’s eyes were drawn first to her pink lips and second to the burning heat in her gaze.

“Fuck patience,” Sejuani growled, and then covered Ashe’s mouth with her own before anything more could be said.

And frankly, considering everything she Sejuani was already doing—and only just beginning—Ashe was hardly going to complain.

  

* * *

 

 

The interior of the small cabin was sparsely decorated—more utilitarian than anything else—but Ashe could hardly care.  The bed was layered with ample furs, and the well-stoked fire radiated heat even on her bare skin.

She shifted closer, curling up against the equally bare body next to her.

Sejuani’s chest was heaving, her skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat as she fought to regain her breath.  The back of one hand was haphazardly thrown over her eyes, an endearing mimesis of modesty.  Ashe let her have it, and instead ducked downward, deftly capturing a nipple between her lips and toying with it.

 _That_ evoked an immediate response from her bedmate, though not quite a severe as earlier.  It was to be expected, though; she had tired her mighty warrior out.  And really, with the way Sejuani had been begging and pleading but minutes earlier...well, she could not entirely blame the woman.

She felt the low groan of exhaustion and desire alike rumble through through the body that was currently serving as her makeshift pillow.

“Ashe…”

Her smile grew, and she swirled her tongue, earning a second, breathier groan.  She let one hand begin to drift, slipping under the loose cover of furs to scrape along a prominent and jutting hipbone.  The way Sejuani’s voice choked and caught at the touch was more than enough start a sweet ache back between her own legs.  She was given no further time to explore any further reactions, though.

“Woman,” came the growl, pleasantly exasperated.

Two hands wrapped around her waist and lifted her easily, and in a moment she was settled atop her warlord, straddling her hips.

“Insatiable…”

“You hardly seemed to mind,” teased Ashe.  The eye-rolling she received back was all the answer needed.  She let herself be pulled back down and brushed the tip of her nose against Sejuani’s. “Do you need a break now?”

That got a low and grunting scoff.  Sejuani’s lips met hers, soft and giving and with none of the rough haste as when they first barged inside. 

It was amusing, in it’s own way.  For a woman once called the Winter’s Wrath, these kisses were anything but.  They were slow and smoldering, and it wasn’t long before Ashe was melting from them, falling completely into Sejuani’s waiting arms and carelessly clinging back.   

“No,” said Sejuani after a time.  Her eyes were surprisingly gentle, and a quiet smile pulled across her lips. “But I want to take my time with you.”

A firm hand reached around rest on Ashe’s waist, to rest with all of the ease and comfort as though it had been created just to do that one thing.  A thumb stroked idly over her pelvic bone, and Ashe shivered at the gentle and unassuming touch.  For a moment, Sejuani’s features relaxed even further.  The hard lines smoothed away, and she gave a small but brilliant smile.

“I can’t believe that you’re...you’re here,” she blurted, and her cheeks grew uncharacteristically red at the quiet confession.

_Neither can I...or that it took me this long._

“...even,” continued Sejuani, her eyes growing foggy and distant, and her face beginning to fall somewhat. “Even if it is but for a week.”

That made something clench tightly in Ashe.  She ran her fingers through the mess of hair that was growing out; she kissed Sejuani’s pale forehead, the great scar on her cheek, her swollen and tender lips.

Then she whispered back.

“A week now, yes.  Then I have to return to being Queen, while you reside in the mountains.  But it is a week now, and a week again in the future, perhaps a fortnight in the summer months.  Each time I have to take my leave will be a promise to return again, if you would have me.” She swallowed hard, saw the beautiful, proud woman before her do the same with a small nod. “Nothing but the thick winter snows will keep me in Avarosa, Sej...and even then, when the passes melt and spring returns again...so will I.”

When those hands migrated up from her hips, wrapped around her back and pulled her tight and close, Ashe let them.  She rested her head into the soft crook of Sejuani’s neck, marvelling at how it seemed designed for her and her alone.

Here, she was just Ashe.

Here, she was home.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
